


"Snape"

by FalconLux



Series: The Many Faces of Harry Potter [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: "Snape" Harry, Gen, Genius Harry, May Eventually Include Elements of Slash and Het, Powerful Harry, Slytherin Harry, Sociopath Harry, Tags May Change, Work In Progress, rating may increase
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconLux/pseuds/FalconLux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At five years old, Harry discovers that Knowledge is Power.</p><p>"Snape's" story. It's just his first year, so far.  Can be read independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**HP~~Power~~HP**

The boy was five years old when it happened.  When they finally broke him.  One blow too many.  One insult.  One missed meal.  One hate-filled glare.  It was then that the boy understood, with sudden, perfect clarity.  These people liked to hurt him.  They liked to frighten him, to demean, and upbraid him.  That was the greatest power they held over him.  Greater than their ability to dictate what he ate and when, how he spent his time, and where he slept.  Their greatest power was in bringing him pain of all kinds.

The solution, he realized then, was actually quite simple.  He couldn’t believe he’d never seen it before.  Yes, he was young, but it just seemed so basic now.  Like something any infant should be able to grasp.  He – the Freak – was not without his own power.  All he had to do to harness that power was… nothing.  They could continue to try, but they could not hurt him if he did not allow it.  So that is what he did.

When they said terrible things to him, he did not react.  It took a little time, but he was eventually able to stop feeling the pain as fully as he was able to stop portraying it.  He didn’t just stop feeling pain, he stopped feeling altogether.  Really, there were no positive emotions for him to lament.  He had no understanding of happiness, despite the definition he’d read in the dictionary.  Pleasure, love, joy, contentment…  All words with no tangible meaning.  All as incomprehensible as the concept of a billion years.  As meaningless as the temperature inside a distant star.  They were things that did not – could not – mean anything to the boy.

When they locked him in his cupboard, he embraced the darkness until he’d forgotten how to fear it.  When they starved him, he learned to steal what he needed from the kitchen at night, from the neighbors’ houses, slipping in and out and back to his aunt’s house before he could be missed.  When they forced him to work hour upon hour in and out of the house, he trained himself to slip into a kind of daze that took his mind far away while his body carried out the tasks.  And when they beat him…  There, he learned one of his greatest lessons.  He learned to shift his mind until the pain became a simple fact instead of a blurring agony.  He learned how to categorize and analyze his injuries without truly feeling them.  Most importantly, he learned the healing meditation that could cure most injuries during the night.  It wasn’t quite sleep.  It was better than sleep, because his mind could keep working, in a small dark corner, while his body did something like hibernation.

He learned a very great deal in the year following his epiphany, and he discovered for the first time that he had Power, if only over himself.  It was a start.

And then he started school, and he discovered that he had a name.  A real name.  Harry Potter.  The name gave him less power than he would have liked when he shortly discovered that it could give him nothing in the way of information.  His mother’s name had been Lily Evans, he discovered from searching records on Petunia, but there was no record of Lily attending or graduating secondary school.  No record of her getting married, having a child, or attending any kind of schooling.  Evidently, his mother had become a ghost long before her death.  Her records trailed off, growing increasingly few and uninformative after her eleventh birthday.  When her parents had died, Lily Evans had completely vanished in all ways he could think to research.

Since he was five, Harry had known that knowledge gave you power.  When he’d discovered the means to gathering his own power, he’d realized that only through greater knowledge, understanding, and introspection could he build on that power.  So that is what he did.  He started with the few books at the Dursleys’ house.  The dictionary – an old one forgotten at the back of a shelf – an outdated atlas, cookbooks, a few odd romance novels, and a few old school books that Harry could only guess came from Petunia’s days in secondary school.  He devoured them all, committing to memory even that which he could not fully understand yet.

When he started school, he had an entire library at his disposal, which he immediately began to meticulously devour.  Encyclopedias, text books, and all manner of other references were ordered based upon his interests and their level of advancement, and consumed methodically.  The librarian eventually stopping looking at him strangely for his choices of reading material, and the fact that he spent every recess tucked into a corner of the library with his nose buried in the pages of a book.  He read some fiction too, mostly on the basis of better understanding human interaction – these were coupled with the psychology texts in an effort to comprehend the incomprehensible – namely all emotions warm and fuzzy in nature that others seemed to feel.  He still didn’t understand them, but he did understand that better understanding those around him would give him more power over them.  Just like with the Dursleys, if he understood _why_ someone did what they did, then he’d know how to allow or deny them that which they sought.

By his fourth year of school, Harry had exhausted all of the worthwhile reading material in the school library.  He hadn’t read all the children’s books – or even a fraction of them – but he saw no point in it.  There was nothing of merit to be gained from reading children’s stories.

He moved on to the public library then.  He couldn’t get there as often as he’d have liked, but he took out many books at a time, and subsisted with just two trips a week, once on Sundays when Petunia sent him to the market, and once on Wednesdays, when he snuck out of the school during lunch.  He was very good at sneaking about.  When he didn’t wish to be seen, he simply wasn’t.  He didn’t fully understand it, but had enough else to learn that he eventually gave up on the conundrum – or rather, set it aside until he ran across something that could possibly explain it.

Another task he reserved for Sundays was research on his heritage.  Though he became _very_ good at research the only conclusion he was able to draw regarding Lily Evans was that there was something very not right about the later years of her life.  Something unique and intriguing that in no way supported Petunia’s assertion of his parents.  Worthless drunks and whores did not simply vanish – they tended to show up _more_ often, in police records.  People with important, dangerous secrets vanished.

It was over Christmas that year that his life finally took a turn for the better.  He’d been to the library that day, and he’d made an unforgiveable mistake.  His collar had slipped when he’d bent to retrieve his book bag, and the librarian had seen a bruise on his neck.  It was a horrible green and black handprint.  The only reason it hadn’t healed during the night was the fact that he’d had much more serious injuries for his body to heal first.  Though he’d made an effort to play it down as nothing of concern, the very severity of the bruise had left the woman clearly shaken.  He thought he’d managed to smooth things over okay…

…Until the police had shown up at the Dursley house on Christmas Eve morning. 

Vernon and Petunia had managed to smooth it over with stories of a schoolyard brawl, but, as expected, they’d turned on him as soon as they were convinced that the police were well and truly gone.

Harry had never received such a beating in his life.  And though the pain did not touch him, he quickly realized that he was very likely going to be killed before his fool of an uncle realized how much damage he was inflicting or could calm down enough to even consider the fact that killing a boy he’d just been accused of abusing would not look good for him.

Harry reacted instinctively, reaching for the healing meditation in desperation to survive.  It worked better than it ever had before.  He could literally feel his broken bones setting themselves and growing solid once more, even while his uncle broke more of them.

He very quickly grew frustrated at how much effort he was putting in only to have it immediately dashed by heavy fists and sharp boots.  He could feel the power growing within him.  It was the same power that healed him, rising to heights he’d never before felt, but he knew instinctively that the power was not meant to heal this time.  The instant it occurred to him that this power was meant to _harm,_ the idea became utterly intoxicating.  To lash out and cause the Dursleys every bit of hurt they’d ever inflicted – or attempted to inflict – upon him.  Every beating, every poisonous glare, every snarled diatribe, every hungry, sleepless, miserable night in that dark cupboard with naught but spiders for company.  Every Christmas he’d received no presents.  Every _day_ he’d lived without knowing that he had a real name.

Eight years of bitter, poisonous hatred welled up inside him, bled into that bottomless well of power that was filling him and spilling over, and into it, he infused just one word, one wish, one _need_. 

_Vengeance._

The power exploded out of him like a bomb, but all that destruction was directed specifically.  It sought out his three tormentors in the room, and…

There were screams, but they were very brief.  There was a kind of roaring in his ears – his own shout of rage perhaps – and then it seemed to be raining or something nonsensical like that.  He blinked several times, wiped sticky moisture from his eyes, and finally looked around him.

His jaw dropped and his eyes grew very wide as he observed a room bathed in blood.  Blood and… tissue.  And bits of bone, he realized.  Some of it embedded in the _walls_ for Christ’s sake.  He was covered in the blood and tissue, but the bone had not touched him, nor was there any evidence of the brutal beating he’d just received.  And his relatives were just… gone.  Well, not gone, he supposed.  They were decorating the entire room.

He found himself smirking a bit.  He just needed some green and it would be decidedly seasonal.

The smirk faded to a grimace as he took in the smell.  Bowel.  It was quite nauseating, actually.

And then it finally hit him.  The Dursleys were _dead_.  Exploded, by the looks of it.  He didn’t know if he should laugh or cry.  It felt incredibly good to know that they were dead.  They’d deserved it if anyone ever had.  But what was he supposed to do now?  He’d just murdered his “family”.  Granted, he supposed it would be awfully difficult for anyone to prove that he’d killed them.  In all his reading, he’d never discovered any feasible means for causing three people to _explode_.  Well, without a bomb, at least.  And to explode so thoroughly that the largest pieces could fit on the tips of two of his fingers.  _And_ without damaging anything else in the room.

He didn’t fully understand how he’d done it, but he knew that he’d used the same power that healed him.  The same power he felt when he was sneaking around without being seen.  The same power he felt more distantly when he poured through a thousand page text in a handful of hours and managed to remember it all flawlessly.  He didn’t know what it was, but he knew that if it wasn’t unique to him, it was very rare or very well concealed from the world at large.

With that in mind, it could be dangerous if the wrong people started asking the wrong questions.  If there were others who knew about this power, they _could_ link him to the murders.

Despite the odor, Harry sat down on the soggy sofa to consider his options.  He didn’t want to risk corrupting the evidence until he knew what he wanted to do about it.  After all, if he was going to play innocent, traumatized victim, he’d not want the inspectors to realize that he’d gone into the kitchen for a snack or upstairs for a shower after this had happened.  That would be… incriminating.

The best thing to do would be to get rid of the evidence in such a way as to make his survival plausible and innocent.  But how?  He could light the house on fire, but without using an accelerant, it would never burn fast enough or hot enough to get rid of the incredible evidence in the room – bone shards piercing the walls and whatnot.  And most accelerants would instantly point to arson.

He could make it look like arson, of course, or even someone trying to cover up a murder – that he narrowly managed to escape based on random luck.  But if there was enough left over to point to a cause of death for his relatives…

He supposed he could devise a bomb.  He knew enough about chemistry to manage several different varieties with what was available in the house alone.  That would reduce suspicion about any blasted bone fragments.  But why would anyone create a homemade bomb to use in the Dursleys’ house?  No simple robber or maniac would do something like that.  It would have to be…  Organized crime, maybe?  It was a bit of a stretch, but if all the evidence pointed in that direction…

He considered it for a while longer before concluding that it was his best bet unless he wanted to spend a day or two cleaning up every last splinter of the Dursleys before lighting the place on fire.  And he’d still have to do something with what he cleaned up.  No, his odds of exposure were too high if he waited.  The police might come back to check on him, after all.  Make sure he wasn’t being mistreated.  Better to take care of it tonight.

First though, he needed to get cleaned up so that he could make his “escape” plausibly.  He went to his cupboard and dragged out his own, fraying blanket to wipe off as much blood as he could before going to the shower.  There was no point in tracking around more blood that he had to, after all.  That would just increase the odds of something escaping the destruction of the house and making the inspectors ask unfortunate questions.

While he cleaned up, he worked on his story.  What he could say to explain how he’d survived.

A small smile worked its way onto his face as a plan began to form.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled – or if he ever had – but he found that he rather liked it.

When he was clean and dressed in his smallest, least raggedly clothes, he went back downstairs and began putting together his bomb.  Between the household chemicals in the kitchen and his cupboard, a few things from the garage, and some stuff from the shed out back, he managed to improvise a bomb that he was convinced would have the desired effect.

When it was ready, he brought it into the center of the family room – chuckling blackly at how much more appropriate the term was now that the “family” was so much one with the room – and very carefully rigged the detonator up to a kitchen timer.  He then very meticulously returned all of the left-over supplies to where he’d found them before setting the timer for five minutes.

He carefully made sure that he hadn’t picked up any blood on his person, then took a few seconds to center himself and summon the facsimile of panic necessary for his deception.  When he was sure that he was ready, he blitzed out of the house like Satan himself was on his heels.

He ran halfway down the street before hurtling himself at a house half a dozen down from Number 4.  It was the middle of the night by now, so it took some time alternately pounding on the door and ringing the bell frantically before the lights finally began to blink on and heavy footsteps approached the door.  It opened to reveal an older man, looking between angry and wary until his eyes fell to the panting child on his stoop.  He quite suddenly looked concerned.

“What’s wrong, son?” he asked warily.

Harry panted for a few seconds before wheezing out, “My family.  There’s men.  Men in suits.  With guns.  They’re hurting them!  Please!  Please help!”

The man stared at him in shock for a long moment before practically yanking him inside.  He fell to his knees and put steadying hands on Harry’s shoulders.  “Slow down, son.  They’re men in your house, you say?”

Harry nodded quickly.

“They have guns?  Threatening your family?”

He nodded, then shook his head.  “Yes.  No.  They…  They’re hurting them.  K-killing them, I think.”  Tears began to slide down his cheeks and he internally patted himself on the back for the acting skills.

The man looked terribly alarmed as he hurried to fetch his phone.

Harry sank down onto the floor in the corner, drew up his knees, and wrapped his arms around them, rocking slowly, and muttering nonsense under his breath, letting his eyes go blank and unfocused.

His instincts rebelled against the rising instability he was deliberately pushing on his body, but he ignored them.  He knew he was sending himself into shock, but that was necessary.  Silently thanking God – or whoever might give such a blessing to a child who could kill his family – that he’d developed such control over his body.  Really, he supposed he should thank his family.  They had given him the reason to learn such control, after all.

The shock came, as he’d known it would, and the world around him faded into a haze.  He was dimly aware of a massive explosion shaking the floor beneath him at some point, but even that he couldn’t fully catalogue.

There were vague impressions of a lot of people moving around him, some trying to talk to him, being put into a bed.  More people trying to talk to him, talking around him.

Then he drifted off into blissful darkness.

* * *

**HP~~Prodigy~~HP**

When next he woke, his typically calm and ordered mind had reasserted itself, for which he was incredibly grateful.  Allowing his body to become overwhelmed like that had been one of the most difficult and disconcerting experiences of his life.  He hoped he never had to do it again.  If he ever had need to kill anyone else, he was going to do his best to make it look like an accident.  Preferably one that he was not connected to so he wouldn’t have to bother with the acting.

Of course, the acting wasn’t done yet.  If anything, the next few weeks proved to him that going into shock had been the easy part.  Though he played most of his “grief” and “trauma” as quiet numbness, it was still a bitch and a half to pretend to be “disturbed” by the entire situation.

His study of psychology paid off in the end though.  The police were convinced of the picture he’d painted with remarkable ease.  Evidently, from what he gathered through bits of overheard conversations, Vernon actually _had_ had some connection to organized crime.  Apparently he’d borrowed money from them or something like that.  The only thing that surprised Harry was that that walrus had had the stones to deal with criminals – even the “sophisticated” ones.

He was quite flattered when he heard someone discussing the bomb while he was playing numb.  The lab techs at the police station called it a “work of art”, which had very nearly shattered his entire façade.  He didn’t get compliments all that often, after all.  Even unintentional ones.  Such a sophisticated improvised bomb had apparently given even more credence to the organized crime angle.

In the end, the case seemed to be decided rather quickly, and Harry was placed in an orphanage.  His general lack of trust in… well, everyone… made him very wary of living amongst so many unfamiliar kids and adults, but he quickly came to find that it wasn’t so bad.  Though he had to meet with a psychiatrist regularly in the beginning, his extensive study into that subject allowed him to show a healthy level of slow but steady progress and it wasn’t long before his meetings dropped off to twice monthly, then once, and finally he was given a clean bill of mental health.

He kept himself distant from the other children as well as the adults, but not in a way that might suggest he was depressed.  Simply that he didn’t relate well to others.  This was easily explained by his above-average intellect.

Overall, things quickly became much better for him.  He did not attend school for the rest of that year since he was still “recovering” from the horrible “tragedy”.  He did find that it was much easier to get to the library now.  And it was a much larger library, since the orphanage was in London.

When one of the adults finally pressed him about where he disappeared to all the time, he “bashfully” displayed his stack of library books.  Though the woman seemed quite shocked by his choice of reading material, she soon took to escorting him to the library twice a week.  She seemed rather taken with him, actually, which he dutifully encouraged with his shy but brilliant act.

When another school year approached, his self-appointed minder, Angela, introduced him to some folks in cheap suits.  They took him into one of the meeting rooms usually used for adoption interviews, and he was given tests.  Lots and lots of tests.

Though he was wary at first, they explained to him that, if he was smart enough, he may be eligible to test out of several grades and move onto more appropriate material.  At hearing that – seeing the opportunity to gain greater knowledge at a higher level – he threw himself into the tests.

He took extreme satisfaction in watching the reactions of the tight-laced suits when they looked at his scores.

By the end of two weeks, Harry had passed the A-levels with flying colors, and found himself examining his options for University.

They were curious about the fact that his grades had been below average in his last school term, but he tearfully explained it away as trying not to outdo his cousin.  “You see, I just felt so grateful to them for making me a part of their family…  I couldn’t do better than Dudley.  I did love to learn though, so I did a lot of reading in my free time.”  The sods ate it up.

Harry spent the next year at Oxford with a double major in chemistry and botany.  Though he was sure he could have gotten through at least two years’ classes in that time, he didn’t try to rush.  How could he when he had access to that _amazing_ library?  There were so many more things to study than plants and chemicals.  So, between acing all of his classes, Harry submerged himself in one of the most complete libraries in the world, and learned everything he could get his hands on from history and psychology to physics and philosophy.

Returning to the orphanage that summer was _incredibly_ disappointing.  Going back to a regular old public library was exceedingly depressing.  Still, he made use of what books he could find that had anything new to teach him, and he spent his free time working on thesis papers.

At least, that’s what he did until mid-July, at which point, he got a _most_ interesting letter.

“Witchcraft and Wizardry,” he muttered to himself, sitting alone on his bed in his tiny bedroom.  It…  It was perfect.  The existence of a hidden magical world explained _so much_!  So many things that he’d never been able to quantify using science alone.  His ability to heal, to hide, and to kill…  His almost supernatural ability to read and assimilate information at a staggering rate.  The fact that all of those things had come to him gradually over time rather than being inborn talents…

If this was real…  Well, Hogwarts had Oxford beat hands down, then didn’t it?  And he could always take a break and finish his time at University later if he wanted to.  If magic was real, and there was a place where he could learn it, then he was going to do so.

The logistics of it were a little more complicated.

Two days after receiving his letter, he got another, identical to the first, but this time, it didn’t just appear in the mail.  It came to his window.  With an owl.

He blinked at the bird in disbelief for a long moment after taking the letter before it finally dawned on him that it must be a magical form of a carrier pigeon.  With that in mind – and the fact that it seemed to be waiting for something – he fetched a pen and wrote a quick reply to the letter.

> _To Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_
> 
> _My name is Harry Potter.  I’ve received a letter – two in fact – informing me of my acceptance to your establishment.  Needless to say, I was surprised to be invited to a school of “witchcraft and wizardry”, having been unaware that such a thing existed.  Assuming that this is not some form of poorly conceived jest, which seems unlikely to me as I cannot fathom a motive for such a ruse from someone I have never – to my knowledge – met, I would be most interested in accepting this invitation, which, I gather, is something of an honor._
> 
> _Unfortunately, I find myself in something of a quandary as to how I may be able to do this.  Considering that I have never heard of magic in any reasonably rational context, I am led to assume that such is kept carefully concealed from the general population.  As such, I am uncertain as to the proper protocol for disappearing for a large portion of the year without returning to many difficult questions.  I am also confused as to where I may acquire the books and other required supplies stated in the letter I received.  I’m certain I would be aware of it if my local bookseller had a copy of the “Standard Book of Spells”, for example._
> 
> _Alas, I appear to be rambling.  I apologize.  This is all very new and exciting for me.  If you have any advice to offer in response to my stated difficulties, I would be very grateful for a reply.  If I do not hear back from you before August 1 st, I will plan to continue my previous educational pursuits in the coming year._
> 
> _Again, I thank you for your consideration, and preemptively for your assistance, which I can only hope you will provide._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Harry Potter_

 


	2. Magic

**MM~~Harry Potter~~MM**

 Minerva McGonagall alternately paled, reddened, and paled again as she read Harry Potter’s response to his Hogwarts letter.  It didn’t seem possible that the letter had been written by an eleven-year-old – _almost_ eleven-year-old, she reminded herself.  Considerably more disconcerting, however, was the fact that he genuinely did not seem to know anything about the magical world.  She knew that he’d been raised by muggles, but they were muggles who knew a good deal about the wizarding world.

Actually, she realized, why was Harry Potter not on the list of muggleborn wizards and witches?  As he was muggle raised, he could not be expected to get his school supplies without assistance, much less find the platform in order to board the train.

Scowling, she seriously considered going up to the headmaster’s office to give the man a tongue-lashing he’d not soon forget for this “oversight”.  This smacked strongly of his meddling.  The thing that stopped her was Harry’s casual mention of the fact that he may just continue his muggle schooling.

Deciding to speak to the boy first and tear Albus up second, she found the enchanted quill that addressed the letters.  She’d been to the house, but it had been a long time and she could no longer remember it.  Somewhere in Surrey, she thought.

She wrote out the boy’s name and watched with growing horror as the quill filled in the rest.

> Harry Potter
> 
> Bunk Room 12
> 
> St. Bartholomew’s Orphanage
> 
> London

“Orphanage,” she breathed in horror.  Had his aunt and uncle abandoned him or had they died?  Cursing Albus under her breath, she stalked out of the school and apparated directly to London, a few streets away from the orphanage.  She paused long enough to transfigure her robes into a smart business suit – she had to deal with the muggleborn’s parents every year, and that was just easier if she arrived looking respectable in a fashion they recognized – and approached the orphanage.

The young man that she first spoke to directed her to a Ms. Mills when she expressed her interest in Mr. Potter.  She was led into a small but neat office, where she was introduced to Angela Mills, a middle-aged muggle woman with tired but kind brown eyes and a warm smile.

“What is your interest in Harry?” the woman asked once they were settled.

“I’m Deputy Headmistress of a school,” Minerva explained.  “I’m here to offer Mr. Potter a place there.”

Ms. Mills frowned curiously, “What school?”

“Hogwarts.  It’s in Scotland,” Minerva admitted.  “A rather prestigious school, but we take only a very select clientele.  Mr. Potter has been down on our roles all of his life.  His family has always attended there, you see.”

Ms. Mills frowned.  “Oh.  I see.  Well, I can’t imagine he’ll be attending your school, but he may be interested if you can tell him anything about his parents.  I understand that he knows very little about them.  Any keepsakes were destroyed in the fire.”

“Fire?”

Ms. Mills’ brow rose.  “You don’t know?  Oh, dear.  I’m afraid Harry’s aunt and uncle as well as his cousin were killed in a home explosion two years ago.”

Minerva paled.  “I hadn’t heard,” she muttered quietly.

Ms. Mills nodded sadly.  “Yes, it was very tragic.  Harry was almost catatonic when he arrived here.  He’s a strong boy though, and he bounced back within a few months.”

“Was he hurt in the fire?” Minerva asked quietly.

Ms. Mills frowned curiously, “You seem rather interested in the boy to know so little about him.”

Minerva swallowed hard and shook her head sadly.  “You’re right.  I…  I should have kept track of him.  Until it was time to invite him to the school, I hadn’t even realized that he wasn’t still living with his relatives.  I taught his parents, you see.  James and Lily were two of the brightest students I ever had.”

Ms. Mills smiled fondly, “That sounds about right.”

“He’s a bright boy?” Minerva asked hopefully.

Mills snorted quietly.  “Bright?  Harry Potter is a genius.”

Minerva blinked.  “Genius?”

Mills nodded proudly, “That’s right.  He apparently held himself back deliberately to avoid overshadowing his cousin, the little dear, but a few months after he got here, I started to notice things.  The books he was taking out of the library, namely.  That’s the reason I don’t imagine he’ll be taking the offer to your school.  Harry’s just completed his first year at University – Oxford.  And he passed with top marks across the board.”

Minerva made an effort to close her mouth.  She didn’t know much about muggle universities, but the fact that Harry had attended at ten-years-old, and passed with distinction was not lost on her.  “Perhaps I could speak with him,” she said faintly.  It did explain that letter, she realized. 

“Certainly,” Mills smiled as she stood.  “I’ll warn you, he’s quite shy.  He prefers to spend most of his time alone with his books.  The psychiatrist on staff here says that’s not unusual with individuals of his intellect, but she suspects that losing his family as he did probably makes it hard to let himself warm up to people now.”  She stopped in front of room a room with 12 painted on it, and knocked lightly.

“Come in, Angela,” a soft voice called.

“Apparently I have a distinctive knock,” she said wryly before opening the door and stepping into the small, meticulously neat room.  A bed was pushed against one wall, a desk against the other, with a wardrobe next to the door, and a single window splitting the bed and desk.  That took up virtually the entire room with just a small path to walk between.  “Good morning, Harry,” Mills greeted warmly.

Minerva stopped in the doorway when Mills stepped aside, and she got her first look at Harry Potter in ten years.  He was rather tall for his age, with his mother’s brilliantly green eyes, and his father’s messy black hair.  The shape of his face was rather reminiscent of his father as well, though he had Lily’s nose, and the lack of glasses made the resemblance less remarkable to James as well.

Harry’s green eyes focused on her immediately and she could practically _feel_ the intelligence behind the gaze as he seemed to absorb every single detail of her person. 

“Harry,” Mills drew his attention back to her.  “This is Minerva McGonagall.  She’s from a school called Hogwarts in Scotland.  She’d like to speak with you for a few minutes.”

He didn’t seem surprised to learn who she was.  Just nodded politely to Mills, and said in a soft, eloquent voice that seemed as wrong for his age as his eyes.  “Thank you, Angela.  I’ll speak with her.”

Angela nodded with another warm smile, and slipped back out into the hall.

Minerva stepped inside and gently closed the door behind her without taking her eyes off the boy.  “Mr. Potter,” she greeted cordially.

“Deputy Headmistress,” he nodded in return as he rose and shook her hand gently but firmly.  “Honestly, I was expecting another letter.  I very much appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

“It is not a problem, Mr. Potter,” she said politely.  “In fact, I owe you an apology.  Students who do not come from a magical background are generally given their letter directly rather than by owl, but I suspect the fact that you come from magical parents caused the oversight.”

His eyes sharpened a little at mention of his parents.  “Yes.  I suspected my parents may have been magical.”

She frowned, “I read in your letter that you’d been unaware of the magical world.  Your aunt never got a chance to tell you about it?”

He sighed sadly, “She didn’t.  No.  Perhaps she was waiting until I was older.”  He glanced around briefly, then drew the chair away from his desk and turned it to face the bed.  “Please, have a seat,” he offered, sinking down onto the bed once she’d settled herself.

Minerva found her gaze drawn to the books and papers spread across his desk.  She studied them curiously.  “Chemistry?” she asked.

“Yes,” he smiled.  “I’m writing a thesis paper on botanical chemistry.”

“For your school?” she wondered.

“No,” he said easily.  “I’ll have to write a couple more next year – or I would if I returned there – but this is just a side project.  My majors are chemistry and botany, so…”

She looked at him again and shook her head slowly, “Ms. Mills mentioned that you attended University last year.  At your age, that is very impressive, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you,” he acknowledged neutrally.

She swallowed hard.  “Your parents would be very proud of you.”

He studied her briefly.  “You knew them?”

She nodded quickly.  “Yes.  They were two of my brightest and most cherished students, and I kept up with them after they graduated.”

“What was my father’s name?” he asked intently.

It took a moment for Minerva to realize her jaw had fallen and snap it back shut.  “You don’t even know his name?  Your relatives never told you…?”

“I suspect my aunt feared I was better off not thinking of such things when I was young.  While I disagreed, I respected her enough to not press it.”

“Your father’s name was James Charlus Potter.  He was heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter, a very influential pureblood line of wizards.”

Harry nodded slowly.  “And my mother… Lily.  She came from a family that was… non-magical?”

“Muggle is the term we use, but yes.  She was what we call muggleborn.  That makes you a half-blood wizard, since you have to have witches and wizards at least four generations back without break on both sides to be considered a pureblood.  Still, your father’s line makes your name an important one…” she faltered.  “Oh, sweet Merlin…”  She’d never thought that she’d be the one to do this, but…  “Did your aunt ever tell you about how your parents died?”

Harry’s face went curiously blank at that, but he shook his head.  “No.  I take it you know?”

She nodded grimly.  “Yes,” she almost whispered, then cleared her throat and forced herself to continue.  “Yes, though it pains me to be the one to tell you…  Your parents were murdered, Mr. Potter, by a very evil wizard.  The Dark Lord… Voldemort.  We don’t…  We don’t even speak his name.  He’s called You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

The boy just looked thoughtful at hearing this.  “Is there an inherent magical danger in speaking his name?” he wondered.

She hesitated briefly before shaking her head.  “No.  It is…  I suppose you could say it is superstition, but during the height of the war, it was dangerous for the reason that if the wrong person heard you say it, you could be in danger.”

He nodded his understanding.  “I assume, based on the past tense you’ve used a few times now, that this dark lord is dead?”

She grimaced, “Yes.  Well, for now.”

His brow furrowed curiously.  “Is there something specific you’re not telling me?” he asked gently.

She blinked at the boy.  Merlin…  She’d just met him and he could read her as well as Albus.  “He was killed the night that he came after you, Mr. Potter,” she said with some reluctance.  “Lily and James were killed, but when he tried to… kill you…  His curse rebounded and killed him.”

He looked thoughtful.  “I take it that’s highly unusual.”

She snorted before she could stop herself.  “It is unheard of, Mr. Potter.  A magical impossibility.  No one knows how it happened, how a child of one year old could survive the Killing Curse - the most vile of all curses – with nothing more than a scar to show for it.”

His hand traveled up to his forehead while his face formed slowly into one of realization.  “Oh my…” he breathed.  “That’s what it is.”

“What, Mr. Potter?” she asked warily.

He shook himself visibly.  “I apologize.  I just… got a rather nasty shock.  I…  I’ve been having this dream for as long as I can remember.  A woman screaming, a man laughing, a lot of green light and the sound of… rushing air – but not.  It never made sense before, but…”

Minerva was aware of the fact that she’d paled dramatically.  “You…  You remember?”

“Does that sound right to you?” he posed with nothing but academic curiosity evident in his face or voice.

She nodded numbly.  “Yes.  The Killing Curse is visible with a green light.  Your mother had red hair and…”

“Green eyes,” he nodded.  “I remember that.  The man…” he shook his head.  “Snow white skin and bright red eyes…  Can that be right?”

“It sounds accurate,” she gulped.  “I’ve never seen him personally, but I’ve heard him described.  Too much dark magic…  He wasn’t entirely human anymore.”

He nodded, “Yes.  I suppose that makes sense.”

“You should know, Mr. Potter,” she said hesitantly when she realized that he was not, apparently, going to get too emotional about discussing that night.

He focused his entire attention on her again and raised his brow questioningly.

That level of attention was slightly disconcerting, but at the same time, she found herself wishing more of her students would look at her like that – like they would devour her every word and commit it to memory.  “What happened that night – the general fact of it, at least – is common knowledge in the Wizarding World.  The fact that you survived the curse and destroyed the Dark Lord…  You ended the war that night.  You brought peace to our world in a time when we were afraid to go out in broad daylight…  You’re a hero to us, Mr. Potter.  The most famous wizard in Britain.”

He blinked slowly, then frowned thoughtfully.  “But I was a year old.  I hardly even remember it.  Surely I can’t be credited with a feat that was, at the very least, completely out of my control.  Isn’t it possible that your dark lord made some mistake?  Or that…  That it was someone else’s attempt to protect me?”

Again, it took her a moment to adjust to the unexpected response from his clearly analytical mind.  “It is possible.  Maybe even likely,” she admitted.  “That doesn’t change the fact that the Dark Lord was very much a threat before going after you.  And then he was gone, and you were, impossibly, alive.  The people were happy to assign you credit.”

He grimaced faintly, but quickly seemed to shift gears.  “That was the second time you’ve said that the dark lord went after ‘me’, rather than after my family,” he noted.  “Why is that?”

She frowned when she realized that he was right.  After a brief hesitation, she figured she had to tell him.  He was too smart to lie to – at least with her limited skills at deception.  “I don’t know all the details, I’m afraid.  I was a part of a group of witches and wizards most strongly resisting the Dark Lord’s influence.  Well, the strongest civilian resistance, at least.  Your parents were as well.  I’m not sure of the circumstances exactly, but I do know that, shortly before you were born, there was a threat made against you and another boy born the day before you.  Your parents went into hiding with you, but…” she grimaced, but didn’t imagine he’d let the question lie.  “They were betrayed by one they trusted.  He’s now in Azkaban – a wizarding prison – and he’ll never leave there alive.”

He nodded with a thoughtfulness that suggested he was examining every single word she’d just spoken.  “Why would he target babies?  Is it our bloodline?”

She sighed, “I believe there was a prophecy involved, but I honestly know no more about that.”

He nodded again, evidently accepting that.  “The way you said that you don’t know the details…” he noted.  “There’s someone who does.”

Bloody hell.  If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was using Legilimency.  “I expect the headmaster knows.  Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry nodded.  “I see.  I suppose I’ll have to ask him at some point.  Well, I thank you for being so patient in indulging my curiosity, Professor McGonagall,” he concluded.  “Though I am finding this infinitely fascinating, we’ve been in here long enough that I’m certain Ms. Mills is growing very curious.  Perhaps we should discuss Hogwarts now?”

She nodded in return, grateful for the change of subject.

“I suppose we should begin with tuition,” he offered.  “You mentioned that my father’s family was quite influential.  Would you know if I was left any inheritance?”

“Of course,” she said at once.  “The Potter family is one of the oldest and wealthiest in the world.  You won’t be able to access most of it until you come of age, but you do have a trust fund at Gringotts, the wizarding bank.  I’m certain it will contain more than enough to see you through school.”

His shoulders sagged slightly in what looked like relief, and she supposed that made sense.  An orphan with nothing to call his own had just been told he was rich enough he’d never have to worry for money.

“Okay,” he moved on.  “What I am to tell the… muggles regarding my whereabouts?”

Minerva frowned.  “The general story is that Hogwarts is an exclusive preparatory school, but I suppose that will hardly work in your case…  I imagine you could use the fiction that you are attending your university.  Any correspondence can be discreetly intercepted and redirected to Hogwarts.”

He nodded thoughtfully.  “That should suffice.  That brings us to the supplies I need.  I assume that there is somewhere to acquire all of these things that is hidden from the muggle world?”

“Yes.  Here in London, that is Diagon Alley.  It is hidden from the muggles, and accessible only by magical means.  There is a physical entrance, but it requires magic to open the gate.  I will escort you personally your first trip.”

He frowned curiously at that.

“It is a duty I perform for all muggleborn students,” she explained.  “Usually, I take a group of three or four at a time, but in your case, I think it would be better to go alone.  Considering your fame.”

He looked pensive.  “Am I likely to be recognized?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she nodded.  “Your scar is legendary.  One glance at it, matched with your age and rather striking resemblance to both your parents…” she shook her head helplessly.

He nodded, “Yes.  I see.”  He seemed to consider it for a moment, and then nodded.  “I suppose it is inevitable.  I might as well get it over with while I’ve an escort.  Very well, when can we go?  I would prefer as soon as possible so that I can start studying.”

She smiled faintly, “Your mother was always a great lover of books, as well.”

He returned her small smile.

“We can go today if you wish.”

He hesitated just a moment, then nodded.  “I would appreciate that very much.  Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Potter.  Do you think Ms. Mills will object?”

“No,” he dismissed easily.  “She knows that I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

* * *

**HP~~Diagon Alley~~HP**

Harry paused briefly at Angela’s office.  He knocked once, then poked his head inside.  “I’m going out for a bit, Ms. Mills.”

“Did everything go okay?” she asked with some evident concern.

“Quite well,” he nodded with a small smile.  “I’ll be back before curfew.”

“Be safe, Harry,” she said, which is what she always said when he left by himself.  She’d always treated him more like an adult than a child, but after he’d spent nine months at Oxford, she’d evidently decided that he could get along without a minder.

“Always,” he gave his standard reply, then slipped back out and gently closed the door.

“Where are we going, Professor?” he asked curiously once they’d stepped outside the orphanage.

“The entrance is perhaps a twenty-minute walk from here,” Minerva noted, glancing around.  After a moment, she picked a direction and started walking.

Harry quickly made pace with her brisk stride.  Since there were so many people around, speaking of magic didn’t seem advisable.  It made for a quiet walk, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

Since they were going in the opposite direction from the library, it was an area Harry didn’t have much experience with, but he did frown slightly when his guide made for the dingy little pub stuck between a bookshop and a record store.  Deciding to hold his peace – since he didn’t actually understand much of anything about the magical world – he followed her inside.

Almost as soon as they crossed the threshold, Minerva drew a long, smooth stick from her robe and waved it vaguely at her body.  He watched in amazement as her suit transformed into a floor-length dress of curious design.  The stick, he gathered, was a wand.  Glancing around the pub, he found that they were gathering little attention, and everyone else seemed to be dressed in a manner much more similar to Minerva’s new attire than anything with which he was familiar.

She strode through the pub with that same brisk pace he was beginning to suspect was normal for her and not an attempt to save time.  They passed through a rear door into a small courtyard, and she drew her wand again to tap a specific brick, which he dutifully memorized.  He could feel the tingle of power not his own that he was beginning to associate with magic and magical people.  Indeed, he’d felt it the instant Minerva had entered the orphanage, though he’d not fully understood the source until he’d set eyes on her.  Even when not directly using magic, magical people seemed to emit it in small amounts.  When it was directly used, the feeling changed somewhat, stirred to the task, and was quite apparent.  He imagined that, with time and study, he’d be able to identify much about the magic used simply by the way it felt.

As soon as she’d finished tapping, the brick wall began to move on its own, reforming into an archway.

Harry watched, entranced, as he could very nearly _see_ the way the magic flowed through the bricks.  And then it stopped and he followed Minerva into what seemed very much another world.  The wizarding world, he realized.  A slight smile touched his lips as he felt the magic permeating the very air around him.  In that instant he knew, _this_ was where he belonged.  Whether or not this Hogwarts proved a suitable place of study, Harry now knew that this world would forever more remain a part of him.

“We’ll go to the bank first,” Minerva informed him as he hopped to match her quick stride down the alley toward a very large marble building of vaguely Grecian-Roman style.  He followed her up the steps and into a rather interesting bank.  The most interesting part, of course, were the employees.  Who were definitely not human.

“Goblins,” Minerva explained quietly.  “They are the owners and operators of the bank, and independent from the wizarding government.  They’re not the most pleasant creatures, but they never go back on their word once given.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully and followed her to an available clerk.

“Mr. Potter needs to access his vault,” Minerva informed the goblin, her voice pitched deliberately low enough that it wouldn’t carry, which Harry found interesting.  “He doesn’t have his key,” she added.

Harry glanced at her curiously before turning his attention to the goblin, who’d stood up to lean over the counter to better see him.  Or glare at him, perhaps.  They certainly did not seem friendly creatures, but that hardly bothered him.  His own friendliness was entirely an act anyway.

The goblin slid a piece of paper – no _parchment_ – toward Harry.  “Three drops of blood,” he ordered.

Harry raised his eyebrows.  Blood?  He glanced at Minerva, but she didn’t seem at all surprised.  She just nodded encouragingly.  Shrugging indifferently, Harry drew his small pocketknife and made a tiny gouge in the tip of his left middle finger, allowed the required blood to fall on the parchment, then quickly stuck it in his mouth to avoid letting any more blood fall.  If they could confirm his identity with three drops, what else might they be able to do with a bit more?

“Mr. Potter,” Minerva said softly.  “If you’ll allow, I can heal that for you.”

He hesitated just a second before removing his finger from his mouth and holding it out to her.  A wave of her wand and a muttered word he couldn’t make out, and there was a swoop of magic.  It passed from her body, through her wand, and into his finger.  He blinked as he watched it heal, then quickly sucked off the last drop of blood and nodded his gratitude.  He turned back to the goblin and asked, “Is there a statement of my account I might be able to see?”

The goblin glanced at him suspiciously, then nodded once.  “It’ll be ready for you on your way out.  Griphook will take you to your vault.”

Harry nodded briefly, and followed the indicated goblin, Minerva at his back.

When he realized that they were to descend into the earth on a mine cart to reach the vault, he was more than a little surprised, but he shook it quickly.  Minerva clearly found all of this commonplace and he had no desire to draw any more attention to his ignorance than absolutely necessary.

The ride down was much more enjoyable than he’d have imagined.  It must have been what it was like to ride on a roller coaster, though he imagined roller coasters likely had more safety mechanisms.  There weren’t even any type of restraints in the cart.  A careless move at the wrong moment, and he could quite easily be thrown into the chasm.  That, he supposed, made it all the more fun.  Still, he was not alone, so he kept himself outwardly stoic while he inwardly screamed with delight at the wild ride.  He’d never before guessed that he may be an adrenaline junky, but be it fatal flaw or curious quirk, it was introspection for another time.

The ride ended sooner than he’d have liked, but it was probably a good thing.  Minerva was looking slightly green.  He followed the goblin to one of the vaults lining the wall and watched as it inserted a golden key and turned it, then heard the scraping of steel against steel as the locks disengaged.  Griphook handed him the key, so he tucked it into his pocket as he stepped around the door to view the interior.

It was empty save a single large pile of coins.  A pile, rather than boxes, bags, or stacks.  He just shook his head vaguely at that and examined the contents of the pile more closely.  Most were heavy gold coins, though there were some silver and bronze as well.  He accepted a bag from the goblin and turned to look at Minerva, who was loitering off to the side enough to avoid looking into the vault, which he thought was rather polite of her.  “How much are these worth?” he asked her curiously.

She stepped forward then and peeked inside, giving no visible reaction to what she saw.  “The gold coins are called Galleons.  They are worth about five muggle pounds.  There are seventeen silver sickles to a galleon and twenty-nine bronze knuts to a sickle.”

“Truly?” he asked in disbelief, unable to conjure any sense to the conversion rates.

She just nodded as though it was the most natural thing in the world, which convinced him beyond doubt that she’d been born and raised in the wizarding world.  No one else could possibly find such a convoluted scheme ordinary.

“All right,” he gave up, stepping into the vault and filling the bag with mostly galleons.  He quickly discovered that the magical tingle he was getting from the bag had to do with some sort of size and weight magic, since it could clearly hold much more than it should have been able to, and it never grew any heavier despite the quite heavy coins.  He wasn’t sure how much he’d need, but he figured a couple thousand pounds worth should hold him awhile.  With that in mind, he put four hundred galleons into the bag, and added twenty each of the other coins, just in case.  Then he thought about books, and added another five hundred galleons.  He paused then and looked at the goblin again.  “Does Gringotts convert this into muggle currency?”

“For a four percent exchange rate, yes.”  He retrieved another small bag and offered it to Harry.  “Put what you want converted into that and it can be done at the desk upstairs.”

Harry nodded and put 208 galleons into the bag so that he’d have a thousand pounds after the exchange fee was satisfied.  He figured that would be plenty to last him the next month, even with the new clothes and books that he meant to buy.  Counting them wasn’t anything he had to do consciously, as his quick mind catalogued each handful and added them effortlessly.  That done, he drew the drawstrings closed on each bag and stuffed them into his trouser pockets while Griphook closed up the vault and they boarded the cart again.

The ride up was nearly as much fun as the ride down, but Harry kept his composure through force of will.

At the counter up front, he got his galleons exchanged for pounds, then followed Minerva back out of the bank.  He was finding that he quite appreciated her quiet patience, even if she was giving him frequent assessing looks.  That was only to be expected, he supposed.

She led him first to a clothing shop, where he got the interesting experience of being recognized for the first time by a magical human.  The shopkeeper, Madam Malkin, smiled pleasantly at him when Minerva told her that he needed Hogwarts uniforms, then her eyes rose to touch on the scar on his forehead and widened almost comically.

Minerva cleared her throat meaningfully and the shopkeeper almost instantly shrugged back into her professionalism and said not a word about his identity as she set to work fitting him for robes and cloaks.  After a brief discussion with the seamstress, he added several casual robes and a set of dress robes to his order.  He decided to wear one of the casual robes over his muggle clothes so that he would better fit in while they were shopping.  Minerva seemed pleased by his decision, but didn’t comment.  Before he left, Madam Malkin recommended a nearby cobbler for decent wizarding footwear, so that was their next stop.

He ended up ordering three pairs of boots, casual, dress, and work, which would be mailed to him in a few days as they were evidently crafted by order – an interestingly archaic custom to his way of thinking.  As he lived in a muggle area, he was able to specify that they be sent by muggle post.  Evidently, that was as simple as sending an owl with the items to the local owl post, which could then send it to a muggle post office.

The next stop was the bookshop, Flourish and Blotts.  Holding his composure upon entering that shop was considerably more difficult than it had been on the mine cart.  The hunger that had been burning in him since receiving his Hogwarts letter was abruptly eating him up from the inside.  There was _so_ much that he wanted to learn, and it was now at his fingertips.

Minerva took one look at his face and chuckled.  “How about I collect your school books, Mr. Potter, while you have a look around.”

“Yes.  Thank you,” he said with a rare, genuine smile, then promptly drifted back into the stacks, sharp eyes absorbing categories and titles, cataloguing the layout of the shop in minutes.  He quickly found that potions and Herbology most closely equated to Chemistry and Botany, but absolutely everything looked fascinating.  When his arms became full, he hunted down a basket and went back to finding books.  Potions and Herbology texts comprised about half of his haul, with some magical creatures texts added when he realized how many potions ingredients came from magical creatures.  He also selected many texts about magical history.  It was a little disconcerting to find an entire shelf dedicated to books about _him_.  He bought many of those, since he wanted to know what everyone else “knew” about him.

When his basket became full, he took it to the counter and then grabbed another basket and went in search of more.  He’d seen the professor magically shrink his robes, so he was certain they’d be able to carry it all.  He filled out his selections with books on each of his other subjects this year, then added a few on arithmancy and ancient runes, as those seemed awfully interesting.  He also grabbed a few divination books, remembering that Minerva had mentioned some prophecy as resulting in the deaths of his parents.  Defense seemed incredibly useful considering that an evil wizard had murdered his parents and tried to kill him.  And he was apparently only dead “for now”.  So he added a few extra defense books.

When he finally made it back up to the counter, Minerva’s eyes had widened considerably as she looked at how many books he was purchasing.  She watched with a keen eye as each book was tallied.  “Your interests certainly seem diverse, Mr. Potter,” she noted.

Harry shrugged shyly.  “I’ve yet to come across anything not worth learning,” he offered.

“Well,” she said after a moment.  “I see you’ve bought five extra transfigurations texts.  That is the subject that I teach, Mr. Potter.  I’ll expect you to have looked at some of them before your first class.”

He gave her his most winning smile, “My word on it.”

She smiled faintly in reply.

“Okay,” the clerk gave a gusty sigh.  “That’ll be four hundred twenty three galleons, seven sickles, and twelve knuts.”

Harry transferred his smile to the clerk and fished out his money bag, pouring the coins into the provided dish and counting them visually as he went.  When the dish was filled to overflowing, he picked one galleon off the top and watched the clerk heft it onto a scale to check the quantity by weight.  The numbers hovered magically in the air when it had settled.  It read 424.

“Wow.  Lucky that,” she chuckled.

Harry just indulged her with a smile instead of correcting her assumption.

Minerva shrunk down the bags packed with books and Harry put them into his robe pockets while the clerk counted out his change.  When they were leaving, Minerva said quietly, “It wasn’t luck, was it?”

“Of course not,” he said with a small smile.

She just nodded and led him to the apothecary, by which he immediately found himself enthralled.  Minerva blinked at him, then shook her head slightly, “I’ll get your kit, shall I?”

“Thank you,” he said distantly as he started into the first aisle, critically examining everything.  About half of the ingredients seemed to be what he would consider fairly ordinary plant and animal life.  The other half came from magical plants and animals.  He examined both with fascination, but prevented himself from buying anything extra.  He needed to read more about potions before he’d know what to do with most of it.  He did, however, get a few herbs that he knew he could make into remedies for basic aches, pains, and antiseptics. 

He was just starting back toward the counter when he heard Minerva say, “Ah, Severus.  This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Shepherding the muggleborns, Minerva?” a cool, deep male voice drawled disdainfully in reply.  “Have you lost your charges?”

“Ah, just one today.  He was just browsing,” she replied simply, not rising to the vitriol in his tone.  Harry got the sense that this was probably a common sort of exchange for them.  “Here he is now,” she added when Harry rounded the shelf.

The man, Harry found, was tall, dressed in entirely black robes of a more severe cut than what he’d seen most wearing today.  His skin was very pale, his shoulder-length black hair framing it limply.  He had a rather large nose and black as night eyes.  All of that Harry observed and absently filed away while most of his attention focused on the man’s magic.  From what he’d observed today, Minerva’s magic seemed stronger than most.  This man though…  His magic seemed at least twice as potent, and just as meticulously controlled.  The man’s eyes widened fractionally when they met Harry’s and Harry noted recognition in them before it was swept deliberately away.  The interesting part was that his eyes had not gone toward his scar at all.  Harry took that to mean the man had known one or both of his parents, as Minerva had indicated a strong resemblance to them both.

“Mr. Potter,” Minerva beckoned.  She didn’t smile, but there was warmth in her eyes.  “This is Severus Snape, the potions master at Hogwarts.”

Harry formed his lips into a small smile, since he didn’t think this man was the sort to appreciate a larger one.  “An honor to meet you, Professor,” Harry greeted, putting his burden on the counter to free up his hand.  Severus just looked at it and his lip lifted in distaste.  Ah.  So he knew Harry’s parents, but was not fond of them, Harry gathered.  There was no other way the man could possibly show such distaste having just met him.  Unless he had something personally against celebrities.  Then again, Harry had lived while his parents had died.  Perhaps this man had been fond of one or both of them and held that against Harry?  He’d need more evidence to decide.

He retracted his hand graciously.  “I’m quite looking forward to your class,” he continued pleasantly.  “I’m new to the world of magic, but chemistry and botany have always been particular fascinations for me, so I anticipate a keen interest in your field.”

The man seemed to be looking for an insult buried in those polite words.  Oh yeah, he’d definitely disliked one or both of his parents – perhaps not undeservedly based upon the brand of hatred he was reading in those black eyes.  It was almost a mirror for his own feelings toward his aunt’s family.  After a moment, Severus turned his attention to what Harry had put on the counter and Harry watched his eyes as he assessed it.  “These were not on your supply list,” he noted with quiet scorn.

“No,” Harry agreed companionably.  “As I said, I know next to nothing of potions presently, but muggle herbalism is something with which I am quite familiar.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed at the vials and jars again.  “A pain tincture,” he gathered.

Harry’s smile came a touch more naturally this time.  Oh yes, he was going to enjoy this man’s class.  “That’s right.  I find the muggle medicines far too broadly scoped and with distasteful side effects.  I’ve been preparing my own for several years, though I admit that I wish I’d had access to an apothecary like this sooner.  The ingredients seem generally far superior to most of those available on the muggle market.”

The hatred in the man’s eyes was starting to fade toward curiosity more now.  “Well, Mr. Potter,” he said after a moment.  The slight edge to his voice on the “Potter” convinced Harry that it was probably his father that this man hated.  “I highly suggest that you study your course book prior to the start of the year.  I do not have time to avail you of the most basic concepts of potions brewing.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” Harry assured him.  “I’ve already acquired a selection of books on the subject in addition to my course book.  I quite eagerly anticipate the opportunity to begin studying them.”

Again, Severus seemed to be trying to decide if he was being insulted.  After a moment, he gave a sharp, terse nod, muttered, “Minerva,” and strode out of the shop.

“Very impressive, Mr. Potter,” Minerva murmured once they were alone.

Harry looked at her curiously.  “Why did he hate my father?”

She flinched slightly, and hesitated before commenting, “Very astute, Mr. Potter.  Perhaps we can discuss it over lunch.”

Harry nodded his consent and paid for his potions supplies before letting Minerva lead him to an open air eatery.  They’d just managed to place their orders when it happened.

“Harry Potter!” an elderly witch gasped.

Everyone within hearing distance froze at the exclamation and looked around until every single eye was focused on him very shortly.  Harry was beginning to realize exactly what Minerva had meant when she’d said he was the most famous wizard in Britain.  Most of the people seemed to be looking at him with something between awe and glee like he was some great role model rather than an almost-eleven-year-old kid.

And then they started to converge on him.  Everyone was talking at once, struggling to get closer to him, to touch him, to get him to look at them or shake their hand.  He felt a twinge of panic, but banished it ruthlessly and took control of himself.  His fame was power if he used it right, but it could very clearly be dangerous if he did not.  It was time to start using it right.

“Excuse me!” he shouted, but no one reacted.  It seemed they couldn’t hear him over their own mindless chatter.  Grimacing, he did something he very rarely consciously did.  He reached into himself, for that well of power – magic – that could heal him or hide him, and he let it flow up his throat, willing it to do as he wished, then he tried again.  “EXCUSE ME!”

This time, his voice boomed easily above the general din, and silence abruptly followed.  He let the magic settle down again, and spoke strongly, but normally.  “Thank you,” he said with a slightly sheepish smile.  “I am truly flattered.  Honestly.  This is more of a reception than I was expecting, to say the least.  At the moment, however, I am simply trying to have lunch.  I would appreciate it greatly if you could all respect my space enough to allow me to do that.”

There was some murmuring and grumbling, and a lot of staring, but the crowd slowly began to disperse.  Harry waited until he was certain he wouldn’t be mobbed again before reclaiming his seat.  “So, that was interesting,” he offered to Minerva with a sheepish smile.

She was studying him intently.  “Mr. Potter, did you use a wandless sonorous charm to make your voice that loud?”

Harry blinked at her.  “Perhaps.  Though I confess, I’d never heard of a sonorous charm until you mentioned it just now.  I just wanted to make myself loud enough to be heard.”

She nodded thoughtfully, but seemed to calm some.  “Accidental magic, I imagine.”  She seemed to dismiss it then.  “Well, that was very nicely handled, Mr. Potter.”

“Well, I admit that I’ve not given as much thought to celebrities as I would have had I known I was one.  Still, I was expecting something like that to happen at some point today.  Honestly, not on that scale, but I figured it would be best to deal with it decisively.”

“Well, you certainly did that,” she said wryly.

He offered her a small smile.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I believe we were going to discuss Professor Snape and my father?”

She sobered at the topic and sighed softly.  “Yes.  Of course.  Well…  Where to begin?  Severus and your father were in the same year at Hogwarts.  I don’t know what started the feud between them, but it began in their first year.  James, though a brilliant student, was also an adamant prankster.  Severus was one of his favorite targets.  Severus, of course, fought back, but he was usually alone while James had his three best friends with him almost constantly.  Their rivalry had the lot of them in and out of the hospital wing almost weekly, and they lost record numbers of points and spent half of most weeks in detentions,” she said with a faint, fond smile. 

“It was James’s temperament to laugh at the world, while Severus had a tendency to scorn it.  By the time they graduated, the animosity was very deep.  I’m afraid Severus never quite got over it, even after all these years.  After what I saw today, I fear Severus is intent on passing that old grudge onto you.”  She smiled a little again.  “Of course, if you continue to impress him like that with potions, it may not last too long.  Particularly if you’re able to dismiss his vitriol as effectively as I saw today.”

He favored her with a small smile.  “I attended one of the most prestigious universities in the world when I was ten years old.  Believe me, I’ve dealt with all manner of prejudice, jealousy, scorn, and ridicule.  It is all the easier to dismiss when it comes from someone I’m actually inclined to respect.  I’m certain that we’ll get on at least tolerably by the end of the year.”

“Well, I hope that Severus can be as mature about the situation, Mr. Potter,” she concluded with a hint of irony.

After lunch, they first went to a luggage shop, where Harry bought a four-compartment trunk, each compartment expanded to two cubic meters.  One compartment was just a wardrobe.  One was a small library – which he expected he’d have to have further expanded fairly soon – one was general storage, and one was just for potions, with storage for cauldrons, vials, various tools, completed potions, and many ingredients.  It was perfect for him and he happily handed over two hundred galleons for it.  He was down to only one hundred fifty galleons of spending money now, but they were nearly done shopping, and he could always stop and get more before term started if he felt the need.  According to his statement from the bank, his trust vault had held 10,000 galleons and would be topped off to that amount once each year.  It seemed an extravagant amount to him until he looked at the balance on his family vault.  He supposed that someone with roughly twelve billion galleons would assume 10,000 a reasonable sum to take a child through a year.  He was going to need to think about investments to make when that money was available to him.

After purchasing the trunk, Minerva restored all of his shrunken items and he stored them in the trunk, which could be shrunken and expanded with the magic worked into it so that he could work it easily despite not yet having any magical training.  Once everything was inside the trunk, he shrunk it back down and tucked it into his pocket.

The final stop of the day was Ollivander’s wand shop.  The moment he stepped inside the dimly lit, incredibly dusty building, his jaw fell open with the magic that slapped him in the face.  Everything in Diagon Alley seemed to contain some magic, either functional or inert, but this shop was something else altogether.  There were thousands of wands in the shop, each one with differently tempered magic, and each seemingly reaching out toward him, as though searching every patron for just the right one.

He barely even noticed the old man who appeared silently from the shelves, but when he focused on him, he realized that this man’s magic was quite unique to what he’d seen thus far.  Instead of being entirely inwardly focused until called upon like all the others Harry had seen, this man’s magic was very reminiscent of the wands in the shop.  Most of it was turned outward, reaching for and evaluating everything around him.  It made Harry wonder how much this man could observe through that alone – and if it was possible to learn how to do that.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” he said with a strange intensity.  “I was wondering when I’d be seeing you.”

Like Severus, this man did not even glance at his scar as he identified him, but Harry didn’t get the sense that he was actually looking at his face either.  He was looking at his magic, Harry realized.  Very interesting.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, each evaluating the other with keen interest.  It only ended when Minerva pointedly cleared her throat.

Ollivander blinked, then nodded to himself.  “Yes.  Of course.  You’ll need your wand then…”  He turned around and studied the shelves.  Harry suspected that he could actually see the magic that Harry was feeling, and he was looking for a magic that was similar to Harry’s own.

After a moment, he gathered up a box and returned to the counter, opening it and presenting it to him.  “Go ahead.  Give it a swish,” he suggested.

Harry reached for it, wary of touching something magical that seemed to be trying to touch him in return.  When his finger was just a hairsbreadth away, he stopped.  He could feel the wand’s questing magic recoiling from him.

Ollivander studied him strangely when he pulled his hand away, but then he nodded.  “No.  I expect not.”

This went on for some time.  Ollivander would fetch a wand or two, and Harry would hold his hand over it for a moment until it reacted with varying degrees of rejection.  Then the old man would close the box and put it back to fetch another.  Minerva was watching it all with intent curiosity, but she didn’t say a word.

Finally, after probably an hour, Harry was starting to wonder if there was a single wand in the shop that might suit him.

Ollivander studied him speculatively, then muttered, “I wonder…”  He tottered to the far back of the store and returned shortly with another box.

Harry did not immediately reach for it when it was bared, instead taking a moment to study the rather unusual flow of magic through it.  It seemed more… alive than the others had.  He strongly suspected that this wand would bite if it decided that it didn’t like him.  Very cautiously, he lowered his hand, palm down, over the wand and let their magic meet.

There was a curious sort of questing feeling, and then he felt a warmth soak into his hand, and the wand seemed to be calling to him.  Tentatively, he touched just one finger to the wand, and the warmth rushed up his arm.  Convinced, he picked it up.  The warmth turned to a burning heat that was not painful, but seared through his body, wrapped itself around his well of magic at the core of his body, and there was a joyous burst of beautiful birdsong that filled his heart with an emotion he could not name.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the floor, Minerva and Ollivander crouched cautiously over him.  The wand was still clutched in his hand.  “That’s the one,” he croaked. 

“Yes, I should say so,” Ollivander agreed while Minerva helped Harry back to his feet.  “Curious.  Very curious.”

“What’s curious?” Harry wondered, having some difficulty not staring at his wand in wonder.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter.  Every single wand.  It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other.  It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why it’s brother gave you that scar.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully as he examined his wand again.

“Furthermore,” Ollivander added.  “The last time I saw a reaction like that to bonding with a wand was July 18th, 1938…  When I sold its brother wand.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed in thought.  “Could that be a reaction inherent to the phoenix feather?”

“In part,” he allowed.  “It also has a very much to the do with the wizard.  I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter.  After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully while he absorbed the fact that this wand’s brother wand belonged to Voldemort, “So it has to do with magical power?  I must be strong as well to have had a similar reaction?  To have bonded with this wand?”

Ollivander nodded slowly as though considering more factors than Harry could imagine at this point.  “Power, yes,” he agreed.  “And something… more…”

Minerva started slightly as though coming out of a trance.  “Well.  Thank you, Mr. Ollivander.  Mr. Potter, it is getting late.  We should be getting you home.”

“Of course,” Harry nodded, making a mental note to pick up a book on wands as soon as possible.  “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander.  How much do I owe you?”

He handed over the galleons and followed Minerva back to the dirty little pub – where he removed his robes and tucked them into his trunk – and back into muggle London without a word passing between them until they reached the orphanage.  “Well, Mr. Potter.  It has been a very interesting day,” she said with the hint of a smile touching her lips.  “Will you need any help getting to King’s Cross station on September 1st?”

“No, Professor.  I can take a taxi now that I have some money.”

“Very good,” she nodded.  “If you arrive at the station at 10:30, there will be someone waiting for you and the muggleborn students between platforms nine and ten to show you how to get onto platform 9 ¾.”

“I see.  Thank you, Professor.  For everything.  You’ve been incredibly helpful to me today.”

Her eyes warmed, “You are very welcome, Mr. Potter.  I look forward to seeing you in class.”

“You as well, Professor.”

With that, Harry turned and went inside.

 


	3. School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to Hogwarts!

* * *

**HP~~To Hogwarts~~HP**

The next month and a half was a blur of fervent studying for Harry.  He read his way through two books a day on average, depending on the size of the books.  He read all of his course books first, then skimmed through the books about the war that he was credited for ending and about him.  Most of the information on him was spotty, speculation, or just plain wrong.  It was disconcerting to imagine so many people believed these things about him, but there was little he could do about it at the moment.  Then he read some about wizarding history and law.

He notified Oxford that he would be taking a few years off to devote to independent study before continuing his education with them when his age was a little more appropriate.  They were saddened by his decision – he’d made quite an impression on many there – but they were understanding.

He devoured his potions books and a couple of accompanying Herbology and Magical Creatures texts.  By the time September 1st rolled around, Harry had completed all of the fifty-six books he’d purchased that first day in Diagon Alley, and still had time to finish the thesis papers he’d been working on.

He left early that morning, after saying a quick goodbye to Angela and being wished a good year at school.  He walked to the Leaky Cauldron with his trunk tucked into his pocket, tapped the brick to get into the Alley, and visited Gringotts first.  After collecting a thousand galleons to take him through the school year – he wasn’t sure how much he might need – Harry made for Flourish and Blotts, where he bought another fifty-two books in all categories, including wandlore, the mind arts, and various influential wizarding families and celebrities.

He packed them into his trunk when he’d paid for them, and shrank it down again to tuck it into his pocket, then returned to Muggle London and found a taxi to take him to the train station.  He was a bit late for the meeting Minerva had mentioned, but he had no problem finding the platform.  It was rather difficult to miss the singular pillar in the station that was practically dripping magic.  A brief examination proved that one side of it was an illusion or some such.  He walked through it and knew instantly that he was in the right place because it was full of magic and magical people.

Weaving deftly through the crowd, Harry boarded the train and claimed an empty compartment.  He pulled his book on mind magic from his pocket and settled in to read.

It was shortly after the train started moving that the compartment door opened and a redheaded boy about his age poked his head inside.  “Anyone sitting there?” he inquired.  “Everywhere else is full.”

“No,” Harry said shortly, somehow doubting that every single compartment was actually _full_ unless this train was quite overcrowded.  Were that the case, of course, it was amazing that he’d found an entirely empty compartment just minutes ago.

The boy came in and took his seat while Harry tried to ignore the fact that the boy was _staring_ at him. 

The door opened again just minutes later and Harry coached himself not to sigh in annoyance as two older redheads came in.  “Hey, Ron,” they greeted the younger boy.  “Listen, we’re going down to the middle of the train – Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron, his face paling just enough to prove that he probably had a fear of spiders, making the remarks of the older boys a goad of some kind.

“Oh,” one of the identical boys said suddenly as he noticed Harry.  “Hi there!  I’m Gred.  And this is Forge.”

Harry eyed them speculatively.  He recalled hearing their names when their family was bustling about outside the train now that he thought of it.  They were Fred and George.  Some sort of comedians based on what he’d heard.  “Hello,” he said politely but neutrally.

The boys looked at each other, then at him again.  “Do you have a name?”

“I do,” he nodded, turning his attention back to his book. 

“So what is it?” the second twin inquired.

With a small sigh, he rested his book in his lap and turned his full attention on them.  “What are your real names?” he asked coolly.

Both boys drew back slightly, their eyes narrowing in perfect synchronization.  After a moment’s hesitation, one admitted, “Fred Weasley,” while the other said, “George Weasley.”  They nodded toward the younger boy and said in tandem, “That’s our ickle brother Ron.”

Harry nodded graciously, “A pleasure to meet you.  I am Harry Potter.”

As he’d mostly expected, all three blinked together at the sound of his name.  “Blimey!” exclaimed Fred while George said, “Are you really?”

“Last I heard,” he nodded.

They stared at each other a moment, then at him.  “Well,” George said finally.  “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Too right,” the other agreed.

“We best be off to see Lee.”

“Sure you won’t come, Ron?”

Ron shuddered slightly, “No.”

The twins left as abruptly as they’d arrived, and Harry made an effort to return to his reading.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron asked after a minute.

“I’ve already answered that,” Harry said without looking up, “but yes.  The answer hasn’t changed.”

The tone alone should have been enough to discourage further questioning or any conversation, but this boy did not seem that bright.

“Oh…  Well, I thought it might have been one of Fred and George’s jokes,” he mumbled.  “So have you really got…  you know…”

Harry sighed, “Have I really got what?”

“The scar?” Ron almost whispered.

“Yes,” Harry said shortly.

“Can I see it?”

Harry bit his tongue and reminded himself that getting rid of the body would be incredibly difficult in the current circumstance.  He snapped his book shut and stood.  “Excuse me,” he said briefly before leaving the compartment.  He walked down the hall until he came to a compartment occupied by two girls, both reading, each several years older than him.  He stuck his head in and gave them a small smile when they looked up.  “Excuse me, but do you think I might join you?” he asked politely.

They both frowned at him.

“Most of the other compartments are rather loud,” he explained.  “I was hoping to do some reading.  I promise not to talk.”

The girls exchanged a look, then nodded to him, already turning back to their books. 

Ravenclaws, he deduced as he took a seat and leaned back to continue reading.

The rest of the ride passed in blissful silence broken only very occasionally when the girls quietly discussed something one of them had read.  Invariably, the conversations lasted no more than a minute or two before both were reading again.  When the trolley came by, each girl bought a small sweet and Harry did as well, nibbling on his licorice wand while he went back to reading.

When the announcement that they were nearly at their destination came, Harry stepped out so that the girls could change.  He slipped into the loo to change.  When he got back into the compartment, one of the girls finally asked, “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Harry Potter,” he smiled, offering his hand.

Both girls were predictably shocked.  Their eyes went to his forehead, then they recovered themselves and shook his hand, introducing themselves as Jannie Miller and Patrice Harwick, fourth-year Ravenclaws.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he said politely.  “I really do appreciate being able to read in peace.  The boy in the first compartment kept asking me questions about my scar.”

The girls commiserated with him and pointedly did _not_ mention his scar or his fame as they made their way off the train.  “I hope to see you in Ravenclaw!” Jannie called as they split ways on the platform.

He just waved politely before following the voice bellowing for the first years.

When it came time to board the boats, Harry stayed to the back to ensure that he wouldn’t get stuck with Ron Weasley.  He wasn’t sure how long the boat trip would take, but he didn’t want to be riddled with stupid questions the entire way if he could avoid it.

Finally, he chose a seat next to a blond boy, across from two rather unpleasant and dim-looking lads.  The blond boy eyed him speculatively, then extended his hand.  “Draco Malfoy.”

Harry fought the urge to sigh as he gripped the hand, “Harry Potter.”

A long moment of silence followed, and Draco didn’t remember to release his hand until Harry started to withdraw his.  “Are you really?” he said finally.  Thankfully, he continued without actually waiting for an answer.  “Well, just stick with me, Potter,” he said pompously.  “I’ll introduce you to everyone who matters.”

Harry did sigh that time.  “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Malfoy, but I’m certain I’ll be able to make the determination myself.”

Draco was quiet for some time after that, likely trying to decide if he’d been insulted or not.  “So what house do you want to be in?” he asked finally.

“I was under the impression the choice was not ours to make,” Harry replied mildly.

“Well, no,” Draco allowed.  “If it was, no one would be in Hufflepuff.”

The goons in the next seat laughed obligingly when Draco chuckled at his own joke, but Harry wasn’t even sure they’d gotten it.

“I see,” Harry nodded.  “Well, I suppose we’d better hope I don’t end up there, or this conversation will become quite an awkward memory.”

Draco waved that off.  “Nah.  You won’t end up in Hufflepuff, Potter.  No one of consequence ends up in that house.”

“Heads down!” the large man yelled.

Harry glanced ahead and bowed his head just slightly while everyone else lay down over their own laps.  Really, it wasn’t that low for an eleven-year-old, though it certainly was for the small giant that was their guide.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he was able to get off the boat.  Malfoy seemed to be trying to make pleasant small-talk, but it was all so incredibly opinionated and harsh that Harry had a hard time remaining pleasant while he listened to it.  He wasn’t going to cast his lot in any direction until he knew more about the school – and which house he was going to end up in.

Mr. Hagrid led them to Minerva, who ushered them inside.  Harry took the opportunity to distance himself a bit from Draco and his tagalongs, and used his ability to remain inconspicuous to avoid anyone else speaking to him until they entered the Great Hall.  After his summer reading, he’d been able to determine that this useful ability seemed to be some form of notice-me-not charm that he’d learned instinctively due to the times in his younger years when it had been a necessity.  Once they entered the Hall, he released the magic keeping him from notice, but positioned himself near some kids he hadn’t met yet to minimize the likelihood of conversation.

The Sorting Hat was incredibly magical, he was able to determine as soon as he saw it.  While he watched it sorting the other students, he wondered what kind of enchantment it had on it, and how it could determine in which house they all belonged.  At a guess, it was either some form of divination, aura reading, or Legilimency.  The last was the most disconcerting.

* * *

**HP~~To Be Sorted~~HP**

At last, his name was called.

Doing his best to ignore the way all attention in the room honed in on him as soon as his name was spoken aloud, Harry kept his chin up and his gaze forward as he sat down.

The hat was lowered onto his head and he waited nervously for something to happen.  Finally, he heard it make a sound like it was quietly clearing a throat that it clearly did not have, and then a whispered, “Mr. Potter.  Could you kindly let me into your mind?”

He frowned.  It was Legilimency, then.  “Absolutely not.”

There was a momentary silence and then it tried again.  “I have to be able to get in to sort you…”

“Then we have a problem,” Harry whispered back.  “I’m not letting you in.”

Another silence, then the hat spoke louder.  “Headmaster, if I may have a word.”

The voices in the hall rose with speculative murmurs as Harry pushed up the hat to see Albus Dumbledore approaching.  He recognized him from some of the books he’d read.  The man was evidently quite accomplished, having defeated the last dark lord in a one on one duel.

“Is there a problem?” he asked with a kind smile that didn’t quite match the shrewd speculation in his ancient blue eyes.

“I cannot sort the boy,” the hat declared.

“Why not?” Albus asked curiously.

Thankfully, they were all keeping their voices low enough that none but probably Minerva would overhear.

“He won’t let me into his mind,” the hat declared somewhat haughtily.

Albus frowned.  “Won’t let you in?”

“His Occlumency shields are some of the strongest I’ve ever encountered,” the hat explained.  “I cannot force my way through.”

That was a relief to know.  He’d read about Occlumency, but had yet to start attempting to practice it.  He’d also read about natural Occlumens, and assumed that he must be such.

Albus stared at him for a minute, “Mr. Potter, you need to allow the hat to sort you.”

“I do not need to allow anyone or anything into my mind, Headmaster,” Harry corrected sternly.

Albus sighed in evident disappointment.  “Mr. Potter, every student at this school past and present has undergone this very thing…”

“I see,” Harry said coolly.  “Then perhaps I was mistaken in my decision to attend here.  There are other magical schools in Europe, are there not?”

Albus paled rather humorously at the threat.  “Very well, Mr. Potter,” he said grudgingly.  “Why don’t you eat with the Gryffindors?  We can discuss this in my office after the feast.”

“As you wish,” Harry allowed, removing the hat and handing it off to a very confused Minerva.  He offered her a small smile before making his way down to the end of the Gryffindor table and taking a seat somewhat distanced from everyone else.  He wasn’t a Gryffindor, after all, and he was certain that he could never fit into that house.  He considered himself brave enough when necessary, but he almost never did anything without thinking it through, which did not quite seem to fit the house image.  Noble was also a word he’d never think to attribute to himself.

The murmurs in the hall rose high enough with speculation that Minerva had to call for quiet before resuming the Sorting.  No one seemed to know what to think of Harry’s failure to be sorted.

He watched as the rest of the first years were sorted, and ate his meal with as little talking as he could manage.  He kept his attention firmly in front of him throughout, since he knew that most of the hall was sneaking glances at him if not simply staring.

When the feast ended at last, Albus made a few announcements, and Harry moved quickly up to the head table since he did not know where the headmaster’s office was.

“If heads of house would follow me,” Albus spoke to his staff, then turned to Harry.  “This way, Mr. Potter.”

Harry gave a brief nod to Minerva and Severus, then joined them in going to the headmaster’s office.  Inside, Harry quickly took in every detail of the room – virtually everything in it seemed intensely magical – before taking the offered seat, the professors sitting around him while the headmaster sat behind his desk.

The most notable feature of the room to Harry’s mind was the phoenix sitting on a perch across the room staring at him intently.

“What is the meaning of this, Albus?” Severus inquired.

“We’ve had some difficulty with Mr. Potter’s sorting,” Albus explained.

“Well, that was obvious enough,” Severus snapped.  “What, exactly, was the problem?”

“Mr. Potter refuses to allow the Hat to view his mind,” Albus said blandly.

Severus’ scowl slipped into a frown as he turned to look at Harry along with everyone else.  “He cannot have shields that strong,” Severus said uncertainly.

“The Hat says that he does,” Albus countered.  “He would have to allow the hat into his mind.”

Severus focused on Harry, “Then let it in, Mr. Potter, so that we can all go to bed.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry said politely, “but I don’t feel comfortable allowing a powerful magical object access to my mind.  Once it’s inside, there’s no guarantee I could force it out, or that I would even recognize if its purpose was malign.”

Severus huffed irritably, “Mr. Potter, that hat has explored every student’s mind for a thousand years.  There is no reason to be so suspicious.”

“When it comes to my mind, sir, I believe there is every reason for caution,” Harry countered.  “The contents of my mind are mine and mine alone.  My mental faculties are the essence of my identity.  How can I be absolutely certain that it would not add or remove something while it was in there?  Something that I may not even be able to recall as a difference after it is done.”

Severus seemed to be considering the merit of that argument while the small man spoke up.

“Excellently reasoned, Mr. Potter.  You may well be a credit to Ravenclaw.”

Harry nodded his appreciation of the statement.  “I met Miss Harwick and Miss Miller on the train, Professor.  They both seemed a credit to your house.”

The small professor beamed at the compliment.

“Enough, Potter,” Severus snarled.  “You have to let the hat sort you, just like everyone else or you do not belong at this school.”

Harry sighed.  “I see.  Very well.  Perhaps Beauxbatons or Durmstrang will be more accommodating.  Could one of you tell me the easiest way to return to London?”

Complaints rose around him from everyone except Severus, who looked murderous at the ultimatum.

“Now, Mr. Potter, there is no need to be so dramatic,” Albus chided.

“I’m not being dramatic, sir,” Harry said calmly.  “I have no particular attachment to this school.”

“Your parents went here, Mr. Potter!” Minerva interjected.

Harry nodded his agreement.  “Yes.  Parents that I never knew.  Honestly, from what I’ve read, Beauxbatons has some excellent programs, as does Durmstrang.  Or I could just hire tutors.”

“That is enough, Mr. Potter,” Albus interrupted.  “We do want you to attend Hogwarts.  Perhaps we can consider a compromise before you make any decisions.”

“Very well,” Harry allowed.

“So he’s to receive special treatment,” Severus bit out.

Harry frowned at the potions master.  By the way he said that, special treatment must have been something Harry’s father had often received, perhaps at Severus’ expense.  Harry felt an unexpected and vaguely alarming sense of camaraderie with this professor as he took in the pain buried deep in those dark eyes.  Severus was a man who had suffered as Harry had suffered and he’d done so at the hands of James Potter and his friends.  Though Harry could hardly be blamed for the mistakes of a man he’d never even known, he felt a strange urge to vindicate his family in the eyes of this man.

“Sir,” he said after a momentary pause, “can you truly not understand my reticence?”

Severus looked at him suspiciously.  “I cannot.  Everyone who has attended Hogwarts has gone through the sorting.  What makes you so special that it would be a threat to you?”

Harry let his brow rise.  “I am not like everyone else,” Harry said quietly.  “The fact that I am alive today is testament to that.”

Severus scowled, but looked slightly thoughtful instead of just hateful.

“If it is any consolation, Mr. Potter,” the Hat spoke up from its shelf, “I cannot share anything that I find in your mind with anyone else except that which is inherently revealed through naming the house in which you belong.”

“ _Can_ not?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“The very magic that makes me prevents it from being possible,” it confirmed.

Harry frowned thoughtfully, “And what of tampering with my mind?”

“I was enchanted only to examine a mind for the purpose of choosing which of the founding members of this school would have valued the student most highly.  I can do nothing more.”

Harry mused on that for a moment.  Despite what he’d said, he truly did not wish to leave the school tonight and attempt to install himself at an alternate school.  The logistics of securing a place to stay until he was accepted at another school was wearying and potentially problematic by itself.  There would also be the headaches of transferring tuition from Hogwarts to the other school and transportation to take himself to whatever other country he ended up in.  If Hogwarts turned out to be too far substandard, he wouldn’t rule out transferring, but it wasn’t a first choice, by any means.

He glanced around the room.  Everyone but Severus was looking at him encouragingly.  The last looked more like he was issuing a challenge. 

Finally, he sighed.  “Very well, but I will defend myself as I am able if I feel threatened,” he warned.

“Fair enough,” the hat agreed.

Albus smiled far too happily as he passed the hat to Harry.

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, drawing on his magic and preparing to defend his mind or attack the hat directly as necessary.  Then he placed it on his head and took a long moment to try to figure out how the hell he was meant to lower an instinctive defense.  After probably a minute of struggling and trying to ignore the stares he could feel on him, he just pulled on his magic and did his best to sort of push it down, like he was trying to get his head above water, at the same time _wanting_ very badly for it to work.  In his experience, how badly he _wanted_ something made a very great deal of difference in how well his magic worked.

Somewhat surprisingly, it worked.  He felt the most insanely uncomfortable feeling as a foreign presence seemed to be staring at him with all his defenses down.  He flinched, but managed to avoid metaphysically diving for safety again.

_Ah, thank you, Mr. Potter,_ the hat spoke in his head.

_Please just make it quick,_ he requested.  _I feel like I’m standing naked in a crowded room._

_Of course…  Let me see…  Oh.  Dear me.  I see why you were concerned for your secrets.  That was a very impressive display of magic, Mr. Potter.  The way that you concealed it, however, was more impressive still.  It’s been quite some time since I’ve sorted a first year with cause to guard secrets of this manner._

_If I find out that you even alluded any of this to anyone,_ Harry growled internally.

_You needn’t worry, Mr. Potter.  As I’ve already said, I am incapable of telling your secrets.  Furthermore, I can see in your mind that it would most certainly be to my detriment if I could.  You have a notable inclination toward vengeance.  Now, as to your house.  Well, you’ve certainly got the intellect for Ravenclaw…  My…  Yes, quite impressive.  But you don’t seek knowledge for its own sake, do you, Mr. Potter.  No, knowledge is your ambition.  And quite the ambition is it.  With that and your cunning… Well, there’s really only one house for you._

_I could have told you that,_ Harry snapped.

_No doubt.  Nonetheless, now everyone else will know that it is true._ It spoke aloud then, its tone conversational rather than a shouted pronouncement as it had done for the others in the Great Hall.  “Slytherin.”

Harry removed the hat from his head, letting his magic return to where it should be and feeling enormously more comfortable at once.  He curiously examined the faces around him.  Severus looked concerned and a little irritated.  Minerva looked surprised and slightly disapproving.  The Ravenclaw head looked disappointed at not getting Harry in his house rather than disappointed that he’d ended up in Slytherin.  The last one, the Hufflepuff head, he supposed, just looked thoughtful.  Albus was concealing his thoughts well, but Harry could see in his eyes that he was concerned.

Interesting…

Harry firmed his defenses – which were easier to identify after that exercise – stronger than ever, and asked calmly, “May I go to bed now?”

Albus gave a soft smile that did not reach his eyes.  “Of course, Mr. Potter.  Professor Snape will be your head of house.  Severus, will you take Mr. Potter down to his dorm?”

In answer, Severus stood.

Harry rose quickly to follow since he didn’t think that Severus was one to tolerate dawdling.

They made it about halfway to the dungeons before Severus spoke.  “I hope you studied your potions text, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded.  “I found it exceedingly captivating.  I’m quite eager to try my hand at brewing.”

Severus glanced at him as though trying to determine how truthful he was being.  After a moment, he just gave one of his brief, sharp nods.  “A word of warning, Mr. Potter,” he said quietly when they paused in a dungeon hallway in front of what looked like a doorway magically concealed in the stone wall.

Harry focused on him fully.

“I expect much from my Slytherins.  I tolerate neither foolishness nor stupidity.  I expect you to comport yourself as befits this house.  May I assume that you understand what that means?” the man said it all in a low, ominous tone.

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded respectfully.

Severus eyed him speculatively for a moment, then glanced at the hidden door.  “ _Astutia_ ,” he said quietly.

The illusion vanished and the door was visible.

Severus led the way inside and pointed to one hall leading off the back of the long, dimly lit room.  “Your dorm is at the end of that hall, Mr. Potter.  Do try not to disturb your dormmates.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry nodded.

Again, Severus eyed him briefly before he turned and passed through a door near the front of the room, presumably toward his own office or chambers.

Harry followed his Head of House’s directions into a dorm and found it occupied by five other boys he remembered from the sorting.  One bed in the back was vacant.

Harry crossed the room very quietly and carefully placed his trunk at the foot of the bed, tapping it to enlarge it.  He changed into a loose t-shirt and pair of sleep pants.  Then he carefully tried out a few of the warding spells he’d learned over the summer, locking and protecting his trunk against intrusion.  When he was satisfied that those had worked, he put some more wards around his bed to ensure that no one could come near his bed without alerting him.  They were all very simple wards made to last only a matter of hours, but they would serve his purpose until he could learn better ones.

He glanced around when he was finished and found everyone still sleeping soundly.  He made a quick trip to the loo, then crawled into the bed, tucked his wand under his pillow, and drew the curtains, wondering what life in the magical world would be like.

* * *

**HP~~To Class~~HP**

When he woke up, he started to look around for his clock before remembering that he didn’t have one.  Magic and electricity did not coexist well, he’d read, so he’d not attempted to bring any electronics with him.  Instead, he used one of the simpler household spells he’d read about.  The Tempus spell required a quick flick of the wrist as the incantation was spoken.  The result was a little larger than he’d planned – probably flicked a little more than he should have – but it was clearly displaying: 04:59. 

He was not surprised in the slightest by the time, as he always woke up at right about five o’clock and had never needed to set an alarm.  Not that he’d _had_ an alarm when he’d lived with the Dursleys, but that was when he’d gotten into the habit.  It had been prudent then to be alert before the muggles, and he hadn’t needed as much sleep since he’d learned the healing sleep.

He got up to find everyone else was still sleeping.  Collecting a clean uniform from the wardrobe compartment in his trunk, along with a small bag of toiletries, Harry slipped out of the room into the loo.  After a quick shower, he brushed his teeth and tried out a drying charm on his hair.  Unfortunately, it left his hair looking even more wild than normal.  He quickly wet his hands and brushed them through his hair until it was as tamed as it would get.  He gave some thought to growing his hair out so the extra weight could help control it.  He’d never considered it in the muggle world because it would make him stand out but the same did not seem to be true of the magical world.  Indeed, it would likely make him seem more respectable if his hair didn’t look completely untended all the time.  When he was satisfied with his appearance, he returned to the dorm, where everyone was still sleeping.

Another quick – this one smaller – Tempus proved that it was just after five-thirty.  Breakfast didn’t start until seven.  With an almost silent sigh, he opened the library compartment of his trunk and chose a potions book in anticipation of his first class with his head of house.  He tucked the book into the crook of his arm and left the dorm again, this time for the common room.  It was empty.  He wasn’t too surprised.  No one at the orphanage had woken as early as him either.  Even at Oxford only about ten percent of the students had regularly been up and moving so early, and most of them ran in the mornings.

After a quick glance around the room, he chose a seat tucked back into a corner where he was sure he’d go overlooked by any but close scrutiny, and opened his book.  Over the next hour and a half, he made a lot of progress in his book and a few of the older students started to move around.  When seven o’clock finally rolled around, Harry closed his book and tucked it into his arm again before leaving the common room for the Great Hall.

Finding his way was a bit interesting.  He’d only been from the Great Hall to the head’s office, and from there to his common room.  It seemed an exceedingly roundabout way to get to breakfast even though it was the only path he knew.  Though it took him a bit longer with some backtracking, his sense of direction was impeccable, and he soon found himself entering the great hall.  There were only about six students in the whole hall this early despite the extra time it had taken him to get there.  The only professors present were Severus and Vector, the arithmancy teacher.  They were seated on opposite sides of the table and did not even look at each other.  Severus did look at Harry as he entered though, and Harry gave him a polite nod as he made his way to the Slytherin table.  Severus did not return it, but he was studying Harry again.  Harry hoped that meant the man was reconsidering his initial desire to loathe James Potter’s son.  So far, he thought he was making progress with the man.

Harry sat alone at the table, opening his book to read while he ate.

“Told you, you wouldn’t be a Hufflepuff, Potter!” a familiar drawl quipped plenty loudly enough for the Hufflepuffs to hear.  Harry was nearly finished with his meal and more students were beginning to fill the hall now.

Harry glanced aside as the blond boy took a seat on his right.  “So you did,” he murmured much more quietly, closing his book and returning it to his pocket since he was certain Draco would not give him the chance to read any more while he was sitting next to him.  He really did seem like a rather poor Slytherin.  He spoke his mind with far too little discretion, particularly given his patently obtuse opinions.  He wondered what Severus would think of this boy.

“So what happened with your sorting?” Draco asked, clearly convinced that he’d get an answer as he didn’t even look at Harry while he began to fill his plate.

Harry sipped his water while he considered his response.  He wasn’t eager to make enemies, particularly one in his own year and house, but he certainly wasn’t going to set himself as a friend of this annoying boy either.  Based on what he’d seen so far of the boy’s behavior, he’d guess that he had an overly pampered childhood – most likely an only child to a wealthy and influential family to be so certain that everyone around him would respect him if not serve him.  Still, Harry had a lot more to learn about him before he was prepared to pass a final judgment.  He was only a child, after all.

“Just a minor disagreement with the hat,” he said pleasantly.

Draco glanced aside at him.  “It wanted you in a different house?”

“Well, I was lobbying for Gryffindor, but it disagreed,” Harry said blandly.

Draco grimaced as though Harry had just admitted something wholly horrifying.

Harry smirked at him, “Gullible, Mr. Malfoy.”

The blond boy flushed at realizing he’d been had and Harry affected a small chuckle as he got to his feet.  “It was interesting chatting with you,” Harry offered, turning around only to find Severus standing a few feet away and watching them.  “Did you need something, sir?” Harry inquired.

“Your time table,” Severus said succinctly, passing a slip of parchment to him.

Harry glanced at it quickly.  Today was charms and transfigurations, then potions and history of magic after lunch.  “Ah, thank you, Professor,” he said as he tucked it into a pocket.  “It seems I will see you after lunch.”

“I do hope you don’t prove a disappointment, Potter,” Severus said with a bit of his usual spite.

“As do I, Professor,” Harry nodded.  “If that is all…?” he added, turning slightly to telegraph his intention to leave.

Severus gave a brief nod before turning to hand out more schedules while Harry headed back toward the dungeons.  He still had nearly an hour until his first class, so he challenged himself to find a different route back to the common room.  It took him twenty minutes to get down there.  He collected his books for his first two classes – though he’d already memorized both – and his other supplies, then headed out to explore the castle some more before his first class.  He located each of the rooms he would need to visit for classes that day, and managed to get to the charms room with five minutes to spare.

Draco and the omnipresent “muscle” as Harry had internally dubbed them were already present, seated in the rearmost row.  Their eyes met, so Harry gave him a brief nod before settling himself at a desk up front.  He prepared parchment and quill for taking notes, then opened the potions book he was currently reading and made it through a dozen pages before the professor started the class.

By the end of the class, Harry had decided that he found Filius Flitwick amusing.  He managed to make the class rather entertaining despite the fact that it had been just an overview of what they could expect from the coming year and a basic outline of what Charms actually entailed – basically they covered the first chapter of the book.  The only notes Harry felt the need to take were on the grading system and how the class would function with bookwork, practical work, and quizzes and exams.  The information about charms was just a condensed version of what he’d already read and memorized in the book.

He was the first student to enter the Transfigurations classroom, since he’d already scouted the room and knew exactly how to get there.  Based on when his classmates had split off from him on the way here, he assumed they were taking a more familiar but more roundabout path to the same destination.

When he entered the room, he found it empty except for a cat sitting on the desk.  A very magical cat, was his first impression.  Then he frowned as he realized that he recognized that particular magic he was feeling.  His brow rose a little, and he nodded to the cat as he claimed his seat.  “Good morning, Professor,” he offered politely.

The cat just blinked at him and twitched its tail, so he ignored his transfigured transfiguration teacher, assuming that she was intending to make a point about her subject with that interesting trick.  He again took a seat in the front row and set out his book, parchment, and quill.  He was just starting on his pleasure reading when Draco arrived.  Though the boy hesitated a moment, he soon took the seat at Harry’s side, his tagalongs sitting on Draco’s other side.

“What _are_ you reading?” he demanded.

Harry tipped the book to show him the cover.

Draco studied it, then sneered.  “Trying to impress our head of house, Potter?”

“It’s an interesting subject, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said simply.

Draco scoffed in disbelief, but let the matter drop.  Then he looked around the classroom and sneered.  “Where _is_ the professor?”

Harry glanced obliquely at him, but Draco seemed sincere.  So, he evidently saw nothing out of the ordinary about the cat.  Interesting.

“I know she’s a Gryffindor, but you’d think she could at least be on time for her own class.”

Harry shook his head very slightly, though Draco wasn’t looking at him.  Half the class could hear him, there was no doubt that the professor could, particularly if her ears were as keen as a real cat.  He really was a poor Slytherin.  Perhaps the hat had sorted him because he had the _potential_ to be a real Slytherin?  Or maybe just based on his family line.  It hadn’t actually taken enough time to have a real look into his head, Harry recalled.

“Are you even listening to me?” Draco demanded suddenly.

“The entire class is listening to you, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said blandly without looking up from his book.  “It may be to your benefit to practice a bit of discretion.”

“What are you blathering about, Potter?” Draco demanded, just as the door opened to reveal a huffing pair of Gryffindors.  Ron Weasley and the Irish boy – Finnegan, Harry recalled.

“Oh good,” Ron said with relief.  “At least the professor’s not here yet.”

Finnegan grinned in return and they hurried to the last pair of open seats.

Harry turned his attention to the Professor just in time to see her leap off the desk, transforming into her human shape in midair with such perfect timing that her feet touched the floor without a jolt.  Harry was impressed.  The rest of the room was shocked.  Glancing around, Harry concluded that _no one_ else had made the connection.  He wondered if they hadn’t felt her magic, hadn’t recognized it, or simply hadn’t paid enough attention to even notice it.  Draco had gone rather pink.  When the boy looked at him, Harry just lifted an eyebrow in a clear “I told you so”, before turning his attention to the teacher who was now docking points from the boys who’d pleaded “lost” for their late arrival.  She seemed to have no sympathy for that, which Harry found consistent with what he knew of her character.

This class was slightly more interesting than the last.  With her typical brisk efficiency, Minerva went through the same sort of material that Filius had, and still managed to have time leftover to give her first practical lesson – turning a matchstick into a needle.

Harry again took notes on the grading and how she would run the class, then cleaned the nib of his quill and put it down, leaning back in his chair and listening attentively for anything that might be new information.  He didn’t actually expect any and wasn’t disappointed in that.  He noticed Minerva eyeing him a few times, but she didn’t comment. 

When it came time for the practical, Harry mentally reviewed what he’d read on the subject before attempting it.  Though it mentioned it only obscurely in the text for this class, Harry had read elsewhere that transfigurations, more than any other magical discipline, focused on visualization.  That made sense considering how intricate the items could be made to be.  The incantations would be paragraphs long if all the details were to be vocalized.  Instead, the incantations were pretty simple, the wand movements a little more complex, and the concentration very involved.  It was necessary to concentrate on channeling the magic as with any spell, but also to split that with a focus on the result you wanted.  One of his more advanced texts had even suggested that the best way to work intricate transfigurations was to actually combine the visualization with the concentration of the magic in such a way to actually imagine the magic performing the deed you wanted completed.

Though he didn’t think the last bit was necessary for something this simple, Harry decided to do it right from the beginning and not have to break himself of troublesome habits down the line.  He took about a minute to work out the proper visualization and concentration, then cast the spell.  He smiled slightly as he watched the match change into a needle almost instantly.  The metamorphosis happened so rapidly that it might have been a switching spell instead of a transfiguration.

“How did you do that?” Draco demanded, though his tone was pitched much more quietly than usual – probably because he wasn’t eager for the whole room to know he was having difficulties.

Harry considered ignoring the question, but reminded himself of his determination not to burn bridges prematurely – particularly not with someone whose father was evidently quite important if the boy’s own boasts were to be believed.  So, he patiently explained the visualization, not mentioning the last step, since it had been from a sixth-year text and would most likely just confuse the boy at the moment.

It took Draco a few tries, but he eventually got it – and looked unaccountably smug about being the second person in the class to succeed.

“Ah, excellent work Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy,” Minerva congratulated as she wandered over to them after dealing with Finnegan, who’d managed to make his match explode.  She waved her wand and both of their needles became matchsticks again.  “Do it again for me, if you would.”

Harry looked at Draco, who happily took the first turn.  He concentrated briefly before casting the transfiguration again.  The transformation was fairly smooth, but took about four seconds to complete.

“Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy.  Five points to Slytherin,” Minerva complimented, then looked at Harry.

He easily recalled the way he’d done it the first time.

Minerva actually blinked at the sudden shift.  “Impressive, Mr. Potter,” she said with a slight smile.  “Ten points to Slytherin.”

Draco seemed a bit put out about being shown up, but he didn’t comment on it.

Harry pulled out his potions book and went back to reading while he waited for everyone else to continue practicing.

When the class ended, Minerva asked him to stay behind.

They waited in silence until the last student had left.  “How did you recognize me in my animagus form, Mr. Potter?” she asked first.

Harry wasn’t too surprised by the question considering that no one else had done as much.  He studied her a moment, then admitted, “Your body changed, but your magic didn’t.”

She blinked.  “You can see my magic?”

He shook his head quickly, “No.  Nothing like Mr. Ollivander, who I think really _does_ see magic.  I can just feel it.  Yours is unusually strong, so it’s difficult to miss.  It’s rather distinctive as well.  I wasn’t sure why before, but now I suspect it may have something to do with your animagus form.  The feel of it is… felid,” he said for lack of a better way to explain.

She smiled faintly.  “That’s very impressive, Mr. Potter.  The ability to feel magic that clearly is a very unusual skill – one even I have not learned, though I understand that it comes more naturally to some than to others.”

“I first started noticing my own magic when I was three,” Harry admitted, which caused her to blink in surprise again.  “It wasn’t until I met you that I began to understand that I could feel magic outside my own body.”

She nodded thoughtfully, “I’ve no doubt that is a skill that will prove invaluable in your education.  Now, my second question.  You took no notes on my lecture today.  Can you tell me why that is?”

“I would have if you’d said anything I hadn’t already known, Professor,” he assured her politely.  “You were paraphrasing the book, which I’ve already committed to memory.”

“All of it?” she frowned.

He nodded.

After a moment, she nodded, too.  “Very well.  I have just one more question.  How did you get today’s spell to work so well?”

“I used the combined concentration method detailed in _Transfigured Life: An Advanced Guide_ by Gretchen Warvarin.”

“You were able to understand that book?” she asked with wide eyes.

He nodded, “Yes, ma’am.  I read several others first to provide the necessary background.”

She studied him thoughtfully, “Just how many of those books did you read this summer?”

“All of them,” he admitted.  “I also purchased some more before term started.”

“And you were able to retain all of that knowledge?” she wondered.

He nodded again.  “I’ve always been able to very quickly retain everything I read.  That’s how I was able to complete my standard schooling so quickly in the muggle world.”

Minerva frowned thoughtfully, “I wonder if we’ll even be able to challenge you here.”

“I was wondering the same,” he admitted.  “Of course, there is a great deal to magic beyond what is taught in my current lessons, so I have no intention of ignoring the rest to simply complete my courses as quickly as possible.  Still, I was wondering if the headmaster may allow me to test out of my second year prior to the start of my actual second year and let me take third year classes?”

She nodded, “Well, we’ll see how you do in your other classes, but I will broach the subject with the headmaster.”

“Thank you, ma’am.  I’m not sure if it is usually done, but I would be interested in staying at Hogwarts even after I’ve completed my final exams, perhaps as a teaching assistant or an apprentice to one or more of the professors.”

“No,” she admitted.  “That is not usually done.  In your case, however, I believe an exception may be made.”

Harry grimaced slightly, remembering Severus’ comment last night, “If I am to receive special treatment, Professor, please ensure that it is a result of my intellect, and not my fame.”

She actually gave him a small smile for that comment.  “That, Mr. Potter, I can most certainly do.”

“Thank you,” he said, returning her smile with a grateful one of his own.  “Truly.”

“Of course, Mr. Potter,” she nodded.  “Now, you’d best get to lunch before you miss it.”

He nodded and took his leave since there seemed nothing more to say.  He was satisfied with the conversation.  It had served to set into motion several of his eventual goals, not least of which getting the respect of his professors for his intellect as well as his maturity.  He’d been working on Minerva longer though.  The others would take some convincing, but he was sure the Deputy Headmistress’s word would carry some weight among the other professors.  All except for Severus.  He was a project in and of himself.  And one that mattered more to Harry than the rest, even if he’d yet to quantify the exact reason for it.

One benefit of getting to lunch late was the opportunity to pretend he didn’t notice the seat Draco had saved, and thus be spared his incessant rambling through the meal.


End file.
